"I am almost finished," she said. Eli reached out and took the wet shirt from her hands. His fingers brushed hers, rough skin against rough skin, and he saw the angry red crack on her thumb. He frowned, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. "Your hands are bleeding. " It is nothing," she said quickly, pulling her hand back and hiding it in the folds of her apron.
"The soap is strong. You are not used to this," he said. His voice was not unkind, but it was blunt. He hung the shirt on the line himself, securing it with a wooden peg. "I will haul the water tomorrow.
I can do it, Eli. I am not an invalid. " He looked at her, then really looked at her. Her face was flushed from the heat. strands of auburn hair escaping her bonnet to stick to her damp neck. There was a fire in her green eyes that startled him. I know you are not, he said quietly.
But the water is heavy, and I need you to mend the grain sacks in the barn. That is work for nimble fingers, not brute strength. He turned and walked back to the corral before she could argue. He was retreating. He always retreated.
Every time he felt the urge to offer comfort, to take her hand and look at the injury. A cold shutter slammed down in his mind. He saw Clara's face. He felt the phantom weight of a coffin. To be kind to this woman felt like a betrayal of the one he had buried, so he offered labor instead of tenderness and walked away.
Later that afternoon, Maggie found herself in the barn surrounded by the smell of dry hay and horse manure. It was a good smell, earthy and honest. She sat on a crate, a pile of torn grain sacks at her feet, a heavy needle in her hand. The ranch hands were filtering in and out, preparing for the evening chores. There were four of them.
Gus, the foreman, was a man in his 60s with a white mustache and a back permanently curved from decades in the saddle. Then there was Dutch, a quiet man who spoke only to horses, and a young, nervous boy named Billy. And then there was Shorty. Shorty was a man of 30 with a face like a crushed hat and eyes that were too close together. He leaned against a stall door, chewing on a piece of straw.
Watching Maggie sew. So, he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the rafters. The boss finally got his money's worth out of that catalog. Huh? Maggie did not look up.
She pushed the needle through the coarse burlap, pulling the thread tight. Shorty chuckled, looking around at the other men for approval. I mean, $50 for a ticket in a ring. Cheaper than a prize heifer, and you get cooking thrown in. Gus, who was oiling a bridle nearby, cleared his throat.
Watch your mouth, Shorty. I'm just saying, Shorty continued, pushing off the stall and taking a step toward Maggie. It is a business deal. Ain't that right, Mrs. Mercer?
Just a business deal. Maggie stopped sewing. The barn went quiet. Even the horses seemed to stop chewing. She set the sack down on her lap and looked up at Shorty.